


Stale Honey Cake

by spaceconspiracy



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek (2009), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Baking, Dancing, Foreign Language, Friendly reminder that Chekov is 17, I feel like I should warn for, M/M, Post Star Trek: Into Darkness, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Hatred, Singing, Underage Drinking, but there's also
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceconspiracy/pseuds/spaceconspiracy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy does not think about a Russian seventeen year old ensign for the rest of the week. No, he most certainly does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stale Honey Cake

**Author's Note:**

> I finally finished this sob I'm so proud of myself. Written for [Regan](http://kamerlort.tumblr.com), the Bones to my Chekov. Also, I struggled for a long time on what Bones would call himself, and finally I just threw my hands into the air and said "McCoy" and so let's just go with that, 'kay. There might be some instances where I slip up and call him Bones but for the most part, McCoy it is. Also, first time writing for anything Star Trek at all ever so woo go me for trying something new.

 

**//SMELL//**

 

When you spend five years in space with a bunch of assholes and idiots and all-together adorable people (do not repeat that to anyone, dammit), you learn a few things. Like, the fact that Russian food may look like somebody threw up everything they've ever eaten in their entire lifetime, but damn, if it doesn't taste good.

Or the fact that you can make some hardcore Russian mead using nothing but honey. Seriously, honey. Trust him, he had his doubts, but then a certain seventeen year old with wide eyes and a broad smile and the ability to concoct such a thing is passing a glass to everyone within his reach and everything Bones thought he knew about the fine art of brewery goes flying out the window into wide open space.

The damn thing tastes just about as good as that borsh soup thing that the crew was all but forced to eat, and that's saying something.

It takes McCoy a good three months to find the kitchens on the USS Enterprise after their little adventure begins, and it wasn't the easiest of feats, but as soon as he manages to, after the incident with the Russian-honey-thing, he finds the same Russian kid with the weird Russian name (Checkoff or something of the sort, he doesn't really know, he's a doctor not a computer with a memory-drive), and really, he's gotta stop thinking of it all as "Russian." He didn’t even really find it on purpose, which irks him a bit because the one time he actually doesn’t go looking it appears right there. Perhaps more walks away from the suffocation of the bridge (and Jim Kirk) is a good thing.

The kitchen is just as expansive as you think it would be, with long sprawling counters and appliances all set in the same shades of silver and white, and one such counter that's more of an island than anything, has various ingredients scattered across the top. The Ru - kid, Chekov, McCoy finally manages to recall (with a bit of a triumphant smirk at that), is busying himself with the task of throwing all the things together into various bowls and singing a tune under his breath.

The tune is question isn't in any language that McCoy has hope of understanding, but the melody is familiar enough, and McCoy stops to try and dig it out of his memory. He stops for two long, standing there aimlessly and Chekov looks up at him, through a streak of flour across his cheekbone and under his eye. "Oh!" he says in surprise, accent apparent even that one syllable. "Dokter!" The poor boy scrambles to give a hasty salute, and Bones will be damned if it wasn't the most adorable things he's ever seen.

He chuckles as it is, and says to Chekov, "Ease off there, I'm a doctor not a Captain."

"Ov course, sir," the kid smiles and really, McCoy has to think of a better adjective than "cute".

"So, uh," McCoy clears his throat and scratches at the back of his head, and Chekov just waits with wide eyes, and _damn it, McCoy, he's seventeen, get your head on straight_. "What are you doing?" Damn, he sounds like some dumb kid asking a pretty girl out to prom, and he swears, if Jim heard this he'd never let it down.

"Er, beking, sir," Chekov replies and holds up a bowl that looks a little too full for comfort, and the manner in which he does it makes it seem like he's asking if _it's okay_ and suddenly McCoy feels like an intruding ass. The kid was all fine and dandy singing his song until McCoy came in.

Ugh, he needs a drink. Preferably _not_ of any honey-mean variety.

McCoy still feels awkward as fuck standing there with Chekov staring at him like he's waiting for instructions or _something_ and tries to breeze his way out of the situation with some small talk (so in this moment, he's more or less Jim Kirk). "What are you, er, baking?" The words are stale in his mouth and he feels it's forced but Chekov lights up a bit and so McCoy feels a little better.

"Multi-layer' honey-cake, sir!"

　

Of fucking course.

　

McCoy makes the quickest excuse he can find and backs out of there.

He leaves with the scent of honey in his sinuses.

 

~X~

**//SOUND//**

　

McCoy does not think about a Russian seventeen year old ensign for the rest of the week. No, he most certainly does not, not even when they're together on the bridge and he has to pass him some medical records. He does not mumble a reply to the thank you he gets and does not register any brushes of the hand. No, Lord, he does not.

Because the kid is seventeen and has better things to do with his life than -

Well no, because the kid is actually _seventeen_ and McCoy is McCoy and sure, his ex-wife is a good ten years younger but that's a hell of a lot different than nineteen, and fuck, the year is 2259 for Christ's sake it really shouldn't be that big of a deal - except that it is. And McCoy being McCoy turns this over in his head, _over and over_ , and barely listens to a word that Jim Kirk is saying to him.

"Bones!" there's a pain in his upper arm that comes with the sharp, rapid fire syllable, and McCoy hisses at it, pushing Jim in automatic response.

"Dammit, Jim," McCoy snaps at him and Jim throws his hands up in mock surrender and gives McCoy a look like he _knows_ and to be honest, he really wouldn't all that surprised.

"Don't get your panties in a twist," Jim snorts but he offers one of those smirks that he rarely ever drops in the first place and nudges McCoy in the ribs with a sharp elbow (not as sharp as when they first meet, all edge and malnourishment and accompanied by dark circles under his eyes). "What's your problem?" he asks like he isn't already well aware as they step out into a particular stretch of hallway that's all dim lights and bleached-bone white walls.

McCoy keeps his mouth shut for several spans of time, because, really, there's more to it than just some weird sort of interest (it's not a crush or anything of the sort, just, _interest_ , and he's not even really aware in what way, but the fact still remains). He contemplates telling Jim about how he's been thinking way too much about his exwife recently, and how he watched an ensign covered in his own blood die from some sort of barbed-alien attack, and how he shoves all of the negative stuff away with honey mead, but in the end, he doesn't.

Jim's quiet too, for once in his life, and after a few minutes he stops poking McCoy in the ribs and whispering "Bonessssss". When McCoy looks over at him, there's a look of deep concentration on his face and McCoy looks a little guilty for it, because concentration is almost never a good thing on Jim Kirk's face.

They reach a too-large doorway that McCoy’s always thought was a little too extravagant, even for Jim T. Kirk (though, he has to admit, that Jim has expressed distaste for it on occasion) and the captain gives a weak smile and enters. McCoy is very aware that he shouldn’t feel guilty for somehow influencing Jim to actually _feel_ things, but self-loathing isn’t an emotion that one can control, and so the walk on to where he sleeps is a little more sluggish than before.

    He’s not thinking about anything in particular when he passes an ajar door with sweet, soft music drifting through the gap. He stops, because he recognizes the melody, and there's a flash of childhood memories that include peach trees and amber liquid, and suddenly his chest feels a little too tight and his throat a little swollen.

He doesn't mean to, but when your emotions are already raw and gaping open like his were starting to, the littlest things get to you, and he finds himself leaning against the wall by the door. He hums along to the tune, trying his best to keep his voice down, but then the singing picks up and he sucks in a breath.

It takes him several seconds of confusion before he's aware that the singing voice isn't in English. It only makes sense of course - there's several nursery rhymes done in as many different languages as he can name before they even make it over to English at all, lost in translation.

          It takes him even longer to register who the voice belongs to, and by that point he's slumped so far down that he's all but laying sideways on the ground, so he stays. He stays until the song is over, just listening.

He leaves with the sound of Pavel Chekov in his ears.

~X~

**//SIGHT//**

It happens again, the singing.

    Beforehand, of course, McCoy avoids all things seventeen and all things Russian for a good week and a half. There was one incident, naturally, with his luck, on the bridge where Chekov bounds up to tell him something that the "Keptin" needed and McCoy turns and brushes him off with the rudest of gestures. He doesn't spare a glance at him, but he can more or less _feel_ the confusion and even hurt radiating off of him and it's enough to make McCoy unsteady on his feet.

    It's not until later, when his mouth tastes of stale multi-layer honey cake and he's actually not filled with self-hatred and loneliness and all the other things he was trying to avoid when he entered the Starfleet Academy. It happens when he's trying to focus on the planet their orbiting, which is actually quite beautiful in a greyish sort of dreary way and McCoy thinks it's the greatest metaphor he's ever heard.

    The door is more than ajar this time, and Bones means to keep walking, head tucked down and eyes turned away, but it's the same tune and there's more than peach trees that decide to resurface in his mind (there comes the feel of dirt smeared across his face and ants on his feet and that may or may not be the sound of a gunshot in the distance, but he's not going to deduce any further than that) and his previously empty head is now full of more things than he can handle.

    It's becoming a problem he thinks, and there's plenty of medicine in the sickbay for this sort of thing (because in 2259 mental illness is non-existent, although McCoy did study it for a large amount of time), but he supposes he's too much of masochist to do a thing about it.

    It's more than music that he registers too - he's halted, like he had a choice in the matter at all, and he's staring, and he shouldn't, but there's less of a _choice_ in that than anything else.

    He sees a lonely seventeen year old swaying to music and humming in an accent, if that's even a possible thing, and he doesn't want to, not at all, but McCoy sees a tear and everything inside of him aches.

    It's worse because Chekov is just about the most damn graceful thing that McCoy could ever even imagine, all fluid movements, and bends towards the music, and birds taking flight, and hair fluttering in the breeze, and the ocean reaching towards the sand like it needs it more than anything, and if he wasn't aching before, he most certainly is now. Aching in everything, in his very bones, which is about as ironic as you can get.

    Chekov looks up.

    McCoy leaves with the colour blue seared into his retinas.

 

    ~X~

**//TOUCH//**

Pavel Chekov gets hurt.

It’s nothing serious, because head wounds bleed more than they should, but the moment Jim and some commander whose name escapes McCoy, with a bloody, unconscious Chekov leaning between them, a switch inside him flips.

    It's automatic, the way he starts spewing instructions at his med trainees, get this, and get that, and stat, and the way he takes the ensign from Jim (they lock gazes and there's something in Jim's eyes thats look too much like understanding), the way he carries him like a child into the sickbay.

    He's not unconscious for long, but the seven minutes and thirty-two seconds that he is McCoy's heart is pounding and the back of his throat is on fire and he doesn't even care that his hands are soaked in blood because he's too busy fluttering over Chekov, checking pulse and breathing.

    Everybody waits with bated breath because the sight of a seventeen-year-old kid bleeding out into a doctor's arms is never a good thing, but McCoy is a doctor, dammit, and he's not going to let that happen. It's not anyway, because after seven minutes, he's coughing and spluttering and spouting Russian and the first thing he looks at is McCoy, who smiles.

    "Welcome back, kid," he says in a whisper, and if it's a little choked so be it.

    Chekov stays in the sickbay although it's been decades since concussions were even an issue, but McCoy has a soft spot for traditional medical care and seventeen-year-old ensigns and he shouldn't, but he does. And so, Chekov stays, and just watches McCoy and co take care of everyone else until it's late and everything's calmed down and everyone's off to bed and it's just McCoy and it's just Chekov in a dimly lit sickbay.

    "Thank you."

    McCoy nearly drops the vial he's holding and the tribble next to him purrs, but he clears his throat and nods. "No need to, ensign." He can't make eye contact, he won't.

　

    He doesn't look Chekov in the eye, but McCoy does move over to him, and he tells himself it's to check on how the gash on his forehead is healing up. Chekov looks up at him with those wide blue eyes and a pout to his mouth, striking McCoy somewhere over his heart. He swallows hard, and even though it's unnecessary, reaches over to trail his fingertips lightly over the scar that has formed over healed flesh.

    There’s a sound, like a breath hitching in a throat, but McCoy doesn’t know who it comes from, and quite frankly he doesn’t want to. “You feeling alright?” he asks, and a Southern accent faded long ago resurfaces in that moment, tightening his words.

    “Yes, sir.” It’s too quiet, the words, and McCoy takes a breath.

    “Drop the sir,” he replies as it is, but it’s just as quiet and he feels wrong, all wrong, and he should've dropped his hand ages ago but his fingers stay pressed against Chekov’s warm temple and -

    Another breath, and he pulls away, clearing his throat. It could just be his imagination, and God, please, just be his imagination, but Chekov seems to lean forward, as if trying to trail after the warm path that McCoy’s fingertips made. It’s not a good thing, it’s not a good idea, not at all.

    They’ve barely even spoken a word except for brief, contrite sentences that McCoy dreads and Chekov frets over and it’s stupid and McCoy wants to fix it so bad but he can’t.

    The tribble on a clean slate of counter nearby purrs and breathes and it’s the only sound in the entire sickbay, and McCoy can feel it in between his cells and under his skin and so he reaches for a nearby flask that’s been handed down for centuries and offers it to Chekov. “It’s not exactly Russian honey mead,” he says with a soft (strained) smile, and Chekov makes a noise that doesn’t sound like a chuckle.

Chekov takes the flask gratefully, and the look on his face may or may not be relief as he takes a swig. “Peechez?” he asks, his accent putting too much emphasis on the last syllable.

“Family recipe,” McCoy replies and he hates that there’s a war of constriction and pure warmth in his chest. it’s too much for him to handle, and dammit, it’s not right, and -

　

　Chekov hands the flask back, and they’re fingers touch.

McCoy leaves with the feel of Pavel Chekov on his fingertips.

  
 

~X~

**//TASTE//**

McCoy is drunk.

Not just tipsy or woozy or anything like that, no, he is actually, one-hundred percent drunk, but on the bright side it’s not off of Russian honey mead this time. On the not-so-bright side, Jim disappeared hours ago with a loud-mouthed half-Vulcan named Spock and everyone else in the near vicinity isn’t doing too great themselves, and so he finds himself leaning on someone much shorter than him who smells like cooking spices and cigars. He doesn’t mean to bury his nose into the person’s neck, but his head is pounding and the hallway is spinning and really, he just wants to lie down and hug a pillow and sleep.

_Ha_ , he snorts to himself. _Sleep, good one_. He hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since the USS Enterprise undocked or whatever the proper terminology is, how is he supposed to know. He’s too busy trying to figure out which way is up and why the ground beneath his feet is spongy.  

McCoy hears the woosh of a door and a grunt and the next thing he knows the world is more than just upside down, it’s outright twirling like an old-school ballerina and he all but dry heaves at the sensation. The headache that had been focused just above his eyebrow is spreading and the happy-go-lucky effects of whatever the fuck it is he drank are wearing off rapidly. So he lays back against the mattress with a groan and tries to clear the lump in his throat that never really goes away.

“Don’ go,” he mutters out to the retreating figure, the one that had dropped him to this location, and the smudge of yellow at the corner of his eye halts. He’s lonely - he’s always lonely, always walking vacantly with a giant gaping hole in his chest and he’d give anything to fill it, but nobody deserves that.

Not even Pavel Chekov, who’s sitting awkwardly on the edge of McCoy’s bed like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and really McCoy doesn’t blame him, but he finds it endearing. Endearing, and _wrong_ , and God, he’s too drunk to even care. The gaping hole is expanding and growing and he wants to sob but he’s not going to, and so instead he reaches and seeks out a touch, any touch, and when it comes he laughs instead. He laughs until the lump in his throat is gone, and then he talks.

He doesn’t know what he’s saying, he doesn’t know what words are spilling out of his mouth and all over the room and stretching and leaning across every surface, and he doesn’t know why the hand in his is squeezing tighter and saying “I’m here”, but he’s okay with it. He’s okay with everything about this situation.

He doesn’t know he’s recalling how things were and could’ve been if every ounce of self-hatred in his body hadn’t gotten in the way, and he doesn’t know he talks about poker games and drinks and cigars and multi-layered honey cake, and peaches in Georgia and a woman who never really loved him at all.

He doesn’t know he’s saying that he _doesn’t understand_ anything and he just wants all the noise in his head to stop, and why did it have to go from multi-layered honey cake to this and everything just keeps falling apart, and he doesn’t know that the sobs are real now, and he doesn’t know that he says, “Just stay and keep it quiet for a while longer.”

He _does_ know that he laughs and says, “You’re seventeen.”

“Eighteen, dokter.”

For the first time in a long while, Leonard McCoy stops hurting.

He falls asleep with the taste of Pavel Chekov on his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write something happy but it became this.


End file.
